


Wings Immortal

by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)



Series: Kidnap Grandads [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assisted Suicide, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, everybody lives shortly followed by everybody dies, no third kinslaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26112709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster
Summary: Maglor averts the Third Kinslaying.Melkor carries it out instead.
Relationships: Eärendil & Maedhros & Elwing & Maglor & Elrond & Elros, Eärendil/Elwing (Tolkien), Minor or Background Relationship(s), mention of Maedhros / Fingon
Series: Kidnap Grandads [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984912
Comments: 47
Kudos: 103





	Wings Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> ugh i don't know you guys but i had feels and now you guys get to have feels too
> 
> title is from the Song of Eärendil for once

_A letter written in haste._

To my Lady Elwing:

I know that you have no cause to think well of any of the sons of Fëanor, nor should you. We are kin-slayers and thrice-damned; we have taken everything from you, and it would be well within your rights to toss this letter immediately into the fire. I beg you not to.

The Oath that we swore is consuming us, and it consumes all lying in our path. The madness will strike us again. I know it will. We cannot halt it. My brother sought to resist it at Doriath, and he failed then, and he will fail again. I beg you to listen to my proposal.

Maedhros and I will come alone and unarmed. You may bind us in chains if you wish. Then we will adopt you and your husband as payment for robbing you of your parents at Doriath. You will give Maedhros the Silmaril, and he will immediately return it to you, as a family gift. The Oath will be appeased, and we will leave you forever in peace.

I beg you. I have seen my brother’s eyes turning dark; I have felt the claws of the Oath pricking us both onwards. This is the only way I can think of to avert further bloodshed. I know it is a great deal to ask. I know it is too much to ask. But all the same I can do nothing but beg that you will consider it.

Signed,

Makalaurë Kanafinwë

_A response_

Kinslayer —

I will never forgive you for what you have done.

You will, indeed, be bound in chains, and you will kneel to me, and you will beg. But I will accept your proposal. Should you play us false, I will slay you with my own hand, as I wish I had done at Doriath, no matter how young I was.

Elwing, daughter of Dior

~

“It’s over,” Maglor whispers to Maedhros in the dead of night. 

Maedhros laughs. “It is not over.” He passes a hand over his forehead and stares into the fire. “There are two more Silmarils, do not forget.”

“Can you not take some comfort that the Oath cannot force us to—to—”

Maedhros blinks back at him, very weary. “Yes, I—Maglor, I am sorry. I am sorry. It should never have come to this.” The firelight plays across his burnished hair as he dips his head slowly. “It was very clever of you,” he says slowly. “Very clever indeed, and I thank you for it, truly.”

“I should have thought of it earlier,” Maglor says, very low. They both stare into the fire. They are both thinking about two little boys in blue, the mists rising in the forests above Doriath, the temperature falling and falling…Maedhros clenches his hand.

“You did not. There is no sense in crying over it.”

He is opening his mouth to say something else, when both of them stop short at the sound of a high-pitched scream. The door of their chamber has been locked from the outside, of course—why would Elwing and her kin not lock them in?—but a locked door has never stopped any of the sons of Fëanor unless they wished it to.

The cries are coming from the royal chamber. Maglor spares a thought to realize that barging in like this is probably a good way to get both of them killed, but—where are the servants? Where are the guards? Why is no one else but the two purported enemies even _trying_ to get in? Maedhros, evidently, either has not thought of any of this or has simply elected not to care—probable—because he knocks and calls out and, lacking a response, opens the unlocked door and simply lets himself in.

Elwing is not screaming anymore; she is at the window, sobbing, curled up in a little ball with her hands over her head. Eärendil, her husband, has gathered up their tiny twins and is saying, “Elwing, Elwing, my love, _please_ —I am so tired— _please_ —” over and over again in various different tones of voice. Both twins are crying.

“Oh, damn,” mutters Maglor, looking quickly over at his brother to make sure he isn’t about to make things worse. Maedhros is white-faced, lips pressed together, but he is in command of himself. Good. “My lord and lady,” Maglor says, and Eärendil looks up as if he is ready to order them from the chamber, but then he stills, his eyes pleading, as if the sound of a friendly voice is almost too much to bear. Valar, he is so young. They are both so, so young. Elwing does not speak or look up, but only sobs.

“My lord, will you order your servants to make your lady a draught? If she is suffering from nightmares, I can give you a remedy to soothe her.” _Maedhros, screaming in the middle of the night, fighting Maglor and Fingon both, the ghosts of Angband more real to him than the touch of his lover and his brother_. “I assure you it will not harm her.”

“I…” Eärendil pauses, then, seeming to come to a decision, nods jerkily. “Yes. Thank you. Elwing, my love, can you—” He looks around in consternation.

“I can hold the little ones,” Maedhros says, and thank god, he is not armed. Thank god, he is lucid and he is kneeling on the floor, his posture nonthreatening.

“No—” Elwing says wildly. “No, no, no—please—do not take my children—do not—”

Maedhros sits quietly. “We will leave if you wish it, my lady,” he says, and the knot in Maglor’s belly releases a little.

“Elwing,” Eärendil says. “Please, love, I swear no one will take the children, but we are both so tired.” His voice is breaking.

“I will be right here,” Maedhros assures them. “See? I have no weapons.” He chuckles dryly. “I have only one hand.” He holds up the right stump, naked, and the golden ribbon tied about it gleams in the firelight. “I will just try to stop them crying. I have done it before.”

Elwing continues to sob, curling up, clutching at her hair so hard that she may be pulling hanks of it out. Eärendil takes another agonized look at her, then takes two steps with the crying twins and deposits them in Maedhros’s arms. “Come with me,” he says to Maglor. “I will summon a servant to make the draught.”

They stand hovering at the door and wait as Maedhros murmurs a silly jaunty little song to the twins. Maglor waits and watches, because he has not seen Maedhros like this in long years, not since Fingon had to take Gil-galad away. He is softened, and it makes Maglor’s breath hitch to watch him, but he cannot let himself fall too far into those thoughts.

He gives careful instructions to the servant, and Eärendil tells them to return swiftly, then totters back to his bed himself and sits down, glancing over towards his wife every so often, but clearly not knowing how to comfort her. Elwing continues to sob, low and desperate, rocking back and forth.

Maglor returns to Maedhros’s side, where the twins have stopped crying, at least, and are now chuckling and curiously poking at the rough scar tissue over his stump. “All right?” Maglor asks.

“Try a lullaby, perhaps,” Maedhros returns. “It may help.” Then he shakes his head. “Who let these _children_ have children?” he demands.

“Hush,” Maglor tells him in some amusement. It’s beautiful to see, this side of Maedhros. He would have sworn it was lost completely in the Nirnaeth. He begins to hum softly, a soothing little lullaby that Nerdanel used to sing to him, and then the two of them sang to the littler brothers, so many long and weary years ago.

As he sings, his voice gradually begins to fill the chamber. The little ones in Maedhros’s arms quiet and cuddle up against him to sleep, one on each shoulder. Eärendil creeps sideways along the bed until he is lying with his head just inches away from Maglor, his eyes blinking sleepily. Even Elwing seems to be growing quieter.

The servant arrives, after a little while, bearing a steaming draught. Eärendil gets out of bed and takes it, mutely offering it to Maglor first. Maglor pauses in his singing to take a drink from it and watches Eärendil’s shoulders slump a little in relief. “Elwing, beloved,” he says sleepily, approaching her weeping form. “Drink this. It will help.”

He smooths her hair back from her forehead and tucks an arm awkwardly around her shoulders, and she looks up at him with streaming eyes and takes a nervous, tiny sip as it is offered. Then another and another, slowly, slowly relaxing as she does so. Maglor’s eyes slide to Maedhros, who is watching them with a face sick with longing, even though he is still rocking the little boys in his lap. He presses his lips together, and to Maglor’s surprise, there are tears shining in his brother’s eyes—his brother, who has never shed a single tear since Nirnaeth.

After she has finished drinking, Eärendil is able to help Elwing to her feet and get her back to the bed, where they both lie down, quietly, in each other’s arms. Elwing buries her face in Eärendil’s neck, and he kisses her forehead, then looks over at Maglor and mouths, _Thank you_ , and then, _Don’t stop_. 

Maglor keeps singing.

~

They stay at Sirion. Eventually, the twins join them.

Elwing threatens to kill Maedhros every day. Eventually, he offers to teach her to use a sword and a bow. Elwing stares at him. Maglor snorts with laughter and dandles Elrond and Elros on his knee.

She learns to fight. Maglor and Eärendil go on fishing trips and take both sets of twins. Elwing’s nightmares gradually grow less fierce; so do Maedhros’s. 

The days slip by, quiet. Full of healing. The Oath does not bite. The Silmaril stays safely locked away.

And then the darkness in the North stirs once again.

~

Screaming and fire. Sirion is ablaze. The dead and dying are everywhere, and Maglor’s treacherous brain keeps spinning and turning back the hands of time. Aqualondë pulls on his awareness. He cannot imagine what it is like for Maedhros. His older brother has turned into a whirling machine of violence, cleaving through orc and orc, sending black blood flying and black limbs thudding to the ground. But always, there are more, more, more.

They cannot prevail. There are too many.

They retreat and retreat again, deep into Sirion and up, up, up into her highest tower. Bodies litter the stairs. Their footprints leave red marks upon the stone. Maglor and Eärendil carry the twins, and Maedhros and Elwing cover their retreat. Elwing fights almost as well as Maedhros, and more desperately.

At last, they reach the tower, the highest point. Beneath them, the sea crashes on the shore and the seagulls are screaming. They will eat well, those gulls, Maglor thinks grimly. When the morning comes. But the morning will not come for the Elves.

Maedhros and Elwing take the door, and Maedhros looks back at Maglor as he and Eärendil try to comfort the crying twins. Maedhros’s face is ghostly with exhausted pallor. “Maglor,” he chokes out. “There are too many of them. There is no escape.” His eyes go from Maglor to the twins, frantically pulling at Maglor’s sleeve, hugging tight to Eärendil. “I will not let Him have them.”

No. Oh, no. Maglor tightens his arms about Elrond. “Maedhros, I can’t—” he chokes out. Eärendil's face freezes in horror as he looks from one to the other. Elwing breathes heavily, peering down the stairs, blood slowly trickling onto her hand. 

“You must,” Maedhros says. “You must, Maglor—” He holds the stump of his right arm up, and the golden ribbon flutters. A stray shaft of sunlight catches in it, and it makes Maglor think of the hair in which he first saw it. “You cannot condemn them to the alternative.”

_Maedhros’s face, gaunt and pinched and raving with fever, when Fingon brings him out of Angband. So thin, so pale, almost dried up, almost broken._ Elwing’s nightmares of Doriath would be silly children’s stories in comparison. He is right, Maglor knows—he is right. He turns to Eärendil, quietly. Eärendil, gentle Eärendil, who by now has held even Maedhros in the throes of a nightmare. “There is no other choice,” he says. “We can make it swift.”

Eärendil shakes his head and does not stop. One hand reaches out and grasps at Elrond’s shoulder. “Elwing— _Elwing_ —” he says in a high, frightened voice. “The sons of Fëanor have betrayed us!”

She looks back at him, her eyes blazing with a dark fire. “You would have our sons taken by _Him_?” she demands, and Eärendil gasps and pulls the twins to him. Both of them are sobbing and incoherent. He bows his head, then looks up again.

“No—no, you are right,” he murmurs.

_Who let these children have children?_ Maglor’s eyes are brimming with tears. He knows Maedhros’s will be dry. He reaches for his sword, but Eärendil stays his hand.

“The sea is clean,” he murmurs dreamily. “I have missed the sea.” He stands, hefting Elros in one arm and Elrond in the other. “Hush, little ones, Ada’s here. Shhh, shhh.” He kisses each one of them once, pulling them close. “Shut your eyes now. Maglor—sing. Please.”

“Yes.” Maglor begins to hum, then to sing, letting his voice soar and shut out the din below. 

_Spread your wings, little one_

_Daylight is ending_

_Fly free, little one_

_All things are mending_

_Soar high, little one_

_Drink of the rain_

_Fly free, little one_

_The sun heals your pain._

Eärendil smiles at him—and Maglor does not know how he can—as he climbs into the windowsill, holding the babies. Elwing looks back and mouths, _I love you_ , and she smiles brightly, so brightly, more brightly than Maglor has ever seen her and it pulls him apart with the thought of _who would she have been if we had let her grow up with her family?_

And then Eärendil steps backward. The gulls scream. Elwing and Maedhros bar the door and come to Maglor’s side.

“Can I kill you, then?” Elwing asks lightly, and Maedhros grins at her.

“Been waiting for a while, haven’t you?”

“Nearly all my life.”

Maedhros nods, shortly. “But you can’t make it quick,” he tells her. “Make it quick for Maglor, but I have to be able to—”

“ _Maedhros_ ,” Maglor protests. “What are you saying?”

“That someone has to be here to help Elwing in the end,” Maedhros responds quietly. “And it is going to be me.”

“I won’t leave you,” Maglor says tightly.

“Well,” Maedhros says with a tilt of the head, and it is only then that Maglor realizes that in the moment he has taken his attention away from Elwing, she has slipped behind him and there is _pain_ , sudden, cold and shocking. “Not for long, anyway,” Maedhros’s voice whispers from far away.

~

The gulls scream. The sea whispers and roars. Three white swans fly westward, their wings gleaming golden in the sunlight.


End file.
